All gathered round the Norman tower

All gathered round the Norman tower

by Christopher Mathews

All gathered round the Norman tower, the sandstone sheep now sleep, some clothed in moss from waiting long, whose names are lost through wind and storm, but never do they bleat. They graze alone in silence, on the soil that they once fed, deaf to us, who weep looking on, listening for that trumpet call, from him who raised the dead. Oblivious of visitors, who stand on feet of clay, don’t weep for me, we both shall be together in the grave. Planted by a love one, some centuries ago, sewn in hope to rise again when Christ will come, that living stone and gather them for his own. The flock is all deserted now, the shepherds all have gone, the prayers and hymns of joyful ones that shook the beams with happy songs, all have turned to stone.

The church is all in darkness now, no living sheep will stir, the candles all are blackened, stained-glass windows rattle, but no living voice is heard. The bells don’t sound or call aloud her worshipers to come, she stands alone stock still like stone, and no one ever comes, her race is all but run. Her name was written in doomsday, a thousand years ago St Mary's Church of Buttsbury, the name that she once bore but some fool has written ‘Ichabod,’ and scrawled it on the door.

© Copyright Christopher Mathews